No Strings Attached
by bullets-embrace
Summary: Kurt and Blaine are just two guys. Two guys in a strictly physical relationship. Until, of course, they realise that their feelings probably run kind of definitely much much deeper. The fic-ified, Klaine-ified version of the film No Strings Attached.
1. Chapter 1: Camp Sunshine Rivers

"So..."

Kurt sat bolt upright, hands clasped in his lap and staring straight ahead. Next to him, slightly slumped over and nudging patterns into the dirt with the toe of his shoe, was Blaine. The high pitched screeching of the other kids who'd been tossed into this seeming endless, uncomfortably warm nighttime bonfire held by the Sunshine Rivers' summer camp programme (slogan: "Always Fun, Never Hum-Drum") carried to them on a thin breeze, but both boys ignored it.

Kurt doesn't quite remember why or how he and Blaine came to find themselves in their current place, sitting with a substantial degree of space between them on a rickety park bench. Neither of them had spoken for what seemed like a year already, and Kurt was beginning to sweat. Not only because he was sitting near a boy (and a very cute, curly-headed boy at that), but because his brand new fifty-dollar Marc Jacobs jacket was not doing him any favours; paired with the almost still summer night air, the sleeves clung to his clammy flesh with all the discomfort of putting on a wet swimsuit.

Kurt grimaced at the sensation.

Blaine coughed as he accidently somehow managed to choke on air.

And to put things incredibly lightly, it was awkward.

"You're pretty good at cooking," Blaine mumbled, and Kurt noted via his peripheral vision that he was looking at Kurt sidelong. Blaine gulped then, wishing he had kept his stupid, stupid mouth shut. He was pathetic in social events.

Kurt nodded tightly. "Oh. That'll be a useful skill if you ever have a time machine and it happens to break and you're stuck back in 1930's Nazi Germany, suddenly transformed into a woman and hit with the realisation that all the men require their wives to be able to cook them a perfect apple strudel."

Biting his lip to refrain from letting out what was sure to be an embarrassingly loud hoot of laughter, Blaine pressed the flats of his palms together and quickly turned to face forwards again. "You're funny. It's weird."

"Yeah." Kurt smiled, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from his lapel. He was suddenly aware of the two or three couples making out fervently on the bridge behind them both, and blushed. "I'm weird."

"Me too."

Kurt didn't even try and mask his scoff. "Yeah, right. Everyone loves you. And your dad's like, famous or something."

"My parents are getting divorced. That's why I had to go to camp. So..."

Blaine blinked. He was surprised at himself. He'd never actually spoken it aloud, let alone blurted it in front of a perfect stranger, but it was true- the only reason he'd been packed off to summer camp was because his parents were getting divorced. Tears prickled in his eyes, a sob catching in his throat, and Blaine quickly swiveled to the side in a hopeless effort to evade Kurt.

Sadly for Blaine, Kurt was very perceptive. "Are you... crying?" He asked with a delicate eyebrow raise, loud enough for Blaine to hear but not screeching it for the arrogant connected-via-tonsils couples to pick up on.

"No," Blaine sniffed, voice faltering and sounding way too squeaky and _oh god, just kill me now._

Kurt's eyes darted away from Blaine's slightly shuddering figure. He reached up to smooth his perfectly sculpted hair (or at least as perfectly sculpted as he could get it with the measly remainders of his last bottle of hairspray), pursing his lips into a flat line as he contemplated his next course of action. He could either try and comfort Blaine, making him seem like a needy bitch, or he could make an excuse and escape back to the bonfire, making him like like a rude bitch. Either way, Kurt would seem a bitch. So he went with the less offensive plan of the two.

"Jesus."

Shuffling closer, Kurt licked his lips and placed a hand in between Blaine's shoulder blades. Blaine could have kicked himself as he felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, but now Kurt was close enough for Blaine to register that he smelled so damn good. And Blaine had a weakness for boys that smelled good.

"I'm not a uh, very affectionate person," Kurt began, casting his eyes nervously around the dark landscape. Blaine was silent, breathing steadily, so Kurt took that as a sign that he was not making a total colossal fool of himself. "People aren't... I mean, I don't think people are meant to be together forever."

Oh.

Okay.

Kurt Hummel, where the hell did that come from?

Resisting the urge to slap himself, Kurt simply blinked up at the flickering torches, watching the orangey-yellow flames dance and trying to retain his deadpan composure. All those A+'s in drama class were not going to waste.

Blaine coughed again, muffling it as much as possible before uttering a dumb "Really?" in reply.

"Yeah."

Silence.

Kurt's hand didn't move from Blaine's back as Blaine nodded slowly. "Can I give you a blowjob?"

"No."


	2. Chapter 2: Frat Party

He knew it was the right building the moment he pulled up at it. A throng of guys were collapsed on the front lawn, seemingly passed out but evidently not, Kurt noted, as one of them had his legs in the air and was hooting like an owl. Over by the front door, a girl in tiny denim shorts and very little else had her head thrown over the railing, retching as her best friend held her long blonde hair, cooing gently and rubbing her back.

Kurt was already highly unimpressed.

Looking up at the building itself, party streamers and- wait, was that toilet paper?- dangling from various windows and thumping bass from a very loud song practically vibrating Kurt's car, he knew it wasn't possible to get any less impressed.

"This is going to be fun." Kurt sighed drily. He unclunked himself from the plush leather car seat of his brand new Mercedes and steeled himself. It was sure to be a long, long night.

After spending at least twenty minutes navigating the increasingly confusing hallways and almost being thrown up on by an Asian girl with a blue streak in her hair, Kurt finally found the room number he had scribbled on his palm. He took a deep breath, ignoring the ominous puddle of something murky and yellow pooled by his left foot, and shoved the door open whilst touching it as little as possible.

"Dude! Glad you could make it!"

A shirtless boy whom he didn't know, glitter and warpaint smeared all over his face, thrust a beer bottle into Kurt's hand, clapped him on the back and proceeded to charge at one of his friends, yelling something unintelligible.

_Do these people speak another language or something? _Kurt thought in horror.

He was holding the bottle gingerly between three fingers as he pushed, indignant even in defeat, through a sweaty crowd of boys, casting judging looks over the scantily clad drunk girls who were doing a strange type of flailing dance to the pounding music, and quickly shielding himself from any of said drunk girls who tried to grind up on Kurt.

"Sorry! No dick, no dice!"

He smiled at his newly invented ditty despite circumstances, weaving through the crowds with newfound ease once he got used to it. _I definitely have to work that line into one of my next scripts._

"Kurt! You're here!"

He almost dropped his lukewarm bottle of beer as Quinn Fabray raced up to him and threw her arms around his neck. Kurt awkwardly nuzzled into her, patting her on the back, and wrinkled his nose slightly- she smelt like stale vodka. Or tequila. Or whatever else she'd been drinking.

She pulled away, running a hand through her wavy mane of thick blonde hair and blinking adoringly at him, hazel eyes slightly unfocused and sparkling. Kurt decided that if he were straight, he'd totally be in love with Quinn.

"I didn't think you'd come," she laughed, cocking her head and hastily unbuttoning Kurt's jacket with jittery hands, "You were never really th'partying type. S'a shame really, you were always such an awesome dancer in Glee. Everyone coulda sworn you were fuckin' any guy that moved by the age of sixteen with the way you moved those hi-"

Kurt slapped her hands away as a look of shock and horror crossed Quinn's heavily made up face, pretty pink pout falling open when she saw Kurt's outfit.

"Kurt. What're you wearing?"

"They're Egyptian silk," Kurt said airily, shrugging his jacket off and revealing the smooth cream coloured pajamas for the world to see, "You said it was a slumber party, after all."

Quinn gawked at Kurt, looking down at her own ensemble of a cutoff pale blue shirt that showed off her lean stomach and an equally revealing pair of thin cotton shorts. She wasn't wearing any shoes. Kurt stared down at his fluffy rabbit slippers and felt no shame whatsoever- he looked amazing, she looked like a whore. Then again, all female college sophomores looked like whores, so Kurt wasn't really all that surprised.

"Yeah, but th'whole point of a slumber party is t'look hot and be drunk!" She exclaimed, slurring her words slightly, "And you're wearing actual pajamas!" she added as Kurt did a little pirouette. He smiled at her sweetly.

"Look, watch."

Before Kurt could protest, Quinn was clambering haphazardly onto the nearest coffee table. Kurt watched, helpless.

"Hey! Hey, everybody! EVERYBODY!"

Every single person in the packed, sweaty room looked up at Quinn's teetering position atop the coffee table. Kurt almost felt a pang of shame for her.

She gazed at everyone, arms above her head, and yelled, "I'M SO DRUNK!"

Roars of approval filled the air, guys and girls alike raising their plastic solo cups in her honour. Quinn gave a final hoot of glee before leaping off of the table and landing with surprising grace.

"Quinn Fabray, I have missed you dearly."

She threw a toned arm around Kurt's neck and pulled him in for a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "Me too, Kurty."

Kurt glared down at Quinn. He hated that nickname more than he hated script deadlines and bitchy primadonnas who demanded all the rehearsal space on God's green Earth.

Quinn shoved a near overflowing shot glass into Kurt's hand before delivering yet another wet kiss to his temple, barely missing his eye, and stumbled off.

He downed the shot and winced at the burning sensation that seared his throat.

Ugh.

_And to think I could be clearing out the costume cupboard right now._

Across the room, Blaine Anderson was having a fucking incredible night. His girlfriend hadn't called, his best friend Finn was happy to fetch him any drink he so wished for, and to top it all off he could blame his adamance to only dance with guys on the effects of too much alcohol. Blaine had discovered long ago that no frat guy is totally straight after six shots and a couple beers are shooting around his bloodstream, and he planned on taking full advantage of that. Right now, for example, he was dancing behind some shirtless guy with shaggy strawberry blonde hair and an ass that was honestly to-fucking-die for. Blaine chugged the rest of his beer, welcoming the hazy buzz, and slid an arm around the guy's waist. What was his name? Jeremy? Jared? Either way, what's-his-name was quite happy to grind his ass back into Blaine's crotch. Fingers digging into Jeremy (/Jared/Jeremiah)'s hips once more, Blaine again reveled in just how fucking incredible this night was.

"Whoa, dude, that's a... dude. Again."

Finn materialised at Blaine's side, two cups of something dark brown and smelling suspiciously like aniseed hoisted precariously above his head. Blaine merely snorted, snaking his arm away from what's-his-name's deliciously sweating torso to accept a proffered cup. The sudden lack of skin contact was to the blonde boy's strong dislike.

He turned to Blaine, glowering, and Blaine winked at him over the rim of his cup. The browny-black liquid tasted foul, but alcohol was alcohol.

"Dude," Finn laughed, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his oversized forehead, "You're so gay when you're drunk."

Blaine shrugged and took another swig, frowning. "What _is_ this shit?"

"A jagerbomb."

"Uh, Finn, I don't see a shot glass of Jägermeister in a cup of beer, I see gross looking shit."

Finn blinked dubiously, grabbing the cup from Blaine and staring into it. Then he looked back at his own. And back and Blaine's. And then he groaned.

"Fuck, man," he grumbled, sitting the cups down onto a table, "I knew I shouldn't have just mixed them together."

"Dumbass."

"Shut up, gay boy."

"At least I know how to make a jagerbomb, Gigantor."

"_Short _gay boy."

Laughing, Blaine locked Finn's head under his arm with great difficulty and gave him a noogie. He shoved him back towards the kitchen with strict instructions to ask one of the not-so-big kids how to make a proper jagerbomb.

Which is when he saw the boy with neatly coiffed hair and these really soft looking silky-satin pajamas leaning against a table. His eyes, which Blaine could tell were a piercing blue even from way back here, surveyed the room as if he was phenomenally and unfathomably bored, glancing down at his plastic cup of drink as if it was filled with piss. Blaine cocked his head, entranced. Something about the boy's delicate frame- lithe, but strong-, his pert little nose, the way he carried himself as if he was sufficiently better in every feasible way than every other person in the room all seemed familiar to Blaine.

And then it finally clicked.

At that exact same moment, eyes widening in recognition, Kurt happened to cast his gaze up to meet Blaine's. A thin smile curled on his lips as he dropped his cup carelessly onto the table and began shoving past people to get to Blaine. Blaine, confidence instilled by countless beers, strode forward to meet him halfway.

"Do I know you?" Blaine asked, unable to suppress a somewhat arrogant head-tilt.

Kurt laughed, rolling his eyes. "Hi, Blaine Anderson of Camp Sunshine Rivers. I'm Kurt Hummel. You offered to give me a blowjob."

"Ah," Blaine nodded emphatically and slightly overdoing the whole oh-so-incredulous act, "Well, woah! Small world! Do you go here?"

"Nope. I go to NYU, but I'm here for a family thing," Kurt replied, delicately dodging the flying elbow of a screeching frat boy as he bulldozed past.

"Woah," Blaine repeated as casually as he could, "NYU. That's like, forever away."

"Yeah well, I like traveling."

"Evidently."

Rolling his eyes again, Kurt gave Blaine a definitive once over.

_Damn, Anderson. You got hot. Or rather, hotter._

Blaine licked his lips.

_Damn, Hummel. Why in the hell did you not let me blow you._

"So," he started again, running a hand through his unruly curls in way he hoped was sexy.

"So."

"You uh, you grew up to be smarter than me."

"Oh yeah, the hard life of a theatre major," Kurt agreed, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping forwards slightly. He was feeling bold. "My throat gets sore sometimes."

Blaine frowned in confusion, willing away the zoo of dirty thoughts currently parading through his brain. "Might I ask why?"

Kurt shrugged. "Gotta hit those high notes, you know."

"Yeah. I bet."

"Mhmm."

_So, _Kurt thought, biting his lip and fiddling with one of the buttons of his silk pajama shirt, eyes trained on Blaine's, _Either he's one for awkward staring or he is totally eyefucking the shit out of me right now._

A slow smile spread over Blaine's face. "I like you."

Kurt snorted, grabbing an empty plastic cup and cracking it between his fingers. "Why? You don't even know me."

"Sure I do. I'd like to get to know you better, though." Blaine had to look away when Kurt's eyes got all soft and warm like that. "I really do like you."

Sucking his teeth in thought, Kurt looked back down at the crinkled cup in his hand and begged his cheeks not to flood with red.

_This could be fun._

"You want to get to know me better?" He tossed the cup to the floor and looked back up at Blaine, smiling. "Okay. I have to go to this stupid thing tomorrow, and I want you to come with me."

"Oh. Is that a question?"

Kurt hummed, swaying slightly to the music. He liked this song. "Not really. More of a statement. Why, are you planning on saying no?

"No! No, that'd be great!" Blaine stopped himself from getting overexcited. He tended to do that a lot. Swallowing, he retained his composure and nodded (hopefully) cooly. "I'll come with you. What is it?"

Kurt sucked in sharply through his teeth before smiling once more. "Just some stupid thing. Pick me up at four."


	3. Chapter 3: Just A Stupid Thing

"...I wanted to leave you with something Burt said to me almost every day at the shop..."

Kurt sniffed prettily next to Blaine, wiping his eyes with a pristine white handkerchief.

When Kurt asked him to go to some stupid thing, naturally Blaine had assumed it would be a date of sorts. A date somewhere quiet and private or noisy and dark so no-one would see Blaine out on a date with a dude. Ideally, that date would have ended with super hot sex, Kurt writhing and moaning beneath him as Blaine totally shook his world.

But instead here he was at a funeral.

Kurt's dad's funeral.

Dressed in khakis and a bright blue Dalton Academy hoodie from his old high school back in Westerville whilst Kurt stood next to him, a vision in tight black jeans, crisp white dress shirt and torso-hugging black velvet waist coast that made him look like some sort of fucking sex god-cum-solemn angel.

On Kurt's other side was his stepmother, swathed in a black dress and mourners veil, bawling loudly to punctuate every word spoken by the guy delivering Burt Hummel's eulogy.

All around him, people were crying and sniffling and clinging to loved ones as if hanging on for dear life.

Blaine had never felt more out of place in his entire life.

And coming from a guy whose show choir once performed at a theme park and a GAP store, that was saying something.

"So," Kurt said smoothly, hooking his arm through Blaine's as he dragged him away from the burial site, eyes only slightly puffy after his bout of crying, "I want you to meet someone. Carole, this is Blaine," Kurt proclaimed proudly. The veiled woman looked up, offering her hand. Instead, Blaine extended both arms and pulled her into a hug.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he said mournfully, momentarily hugging Carole a second too long before Kurt tapped him on the shoulder to signal he should pull away.

Carole blinked. "Y-Yes. Thank you for coming, dear." She looked Blaine up and down, eyes lingering on his face. Turning to Kurt, she nodded her approval. "I didn't know you were dating anyone, Kurt."

Blaine felt the colour drain from his face. She thought Kurt was his _boyfriend? _ "No, no, I'm-"

"Blaine and I aren't dating, Carole." Kurt laughed, taking a martini from a passing waiter and licked the olive at the end of the stick. Blaine watched, mesmerised, as Kurt's pink tongue lapped up the alcohol. Suddenly he sucked the olive clean off with a loud pop and Blaine instantly looked away. "Blaine's just my one night stand from when I was fourteen."

"Oh."

Blaine coughed. Coughing always helped awkward situations. Kurt shot him a sweet, somewhat conniving smile before flouncing away with a short brown-haired girl he vaguely remembered was called Rachel.

Blaine looked back up to Carole, who stared back at him with her lips slightly parted. Again, this was painfully awkward.

_But if Dalton taught me anything, _Blaine's headvoice coached him as he breathed out hard,_ It's that, in actual fact, gentlemen go first._

"This is a nice funeral," he commented.

-**LATER**-

It was a warm evening but Blaine didn't take the hoodie off.

Kurt was walking him down to his car in silence, rubbing his arms, and although neither of them spoke it didn't feel strange to either boy. Which Blaine found strange in itself, but he didn't want to ruin the atmosphere. As their shoes crunched down on flaking autumn leaves, the dappled sunlight straining through the overachieving treetops casting an almost ethereal glow over the otherwise empty driveway, Blaine felt comfortable just walking in Kurt's presence.

When they reached Blaine's car, shoddy and sturdy as ever, Kurt let out a small sigh of triumph. "Told you it'd still be here."

"Yeah, yeah," Blaine chuckled as he clambered in, seating himself on the cracked plastic chair and doing his little shuffle to get comfy, "Whatever you say. Can't trust every neighborhood."

"Ah yes. Of course. I forgot to mention that Freddy Krueger lives just down the road and happily co-habitats with that creepy girl from The Ring."

"Knew it."

"Totally."

They both shared a small laugh as Kurt leaned against the open window of Blaine's car door. He looked reluctant, dying light gently playing across the delicate planes of his face and creating shadows under his cheekbones and nose. He breathed out with a half-smile.

"I'm glad you stayed, Blaine."

Blaine returned the smile, nodding. "Me too." He revved up the car before quickly adding, "I'll call you" in a hopeful voice.

"That would be wonderful. But if you're lucky, you'll never going to see me again."

Blaine was taken aback by how honestly Kurt had spoken the words, like he truly believed it.

Without another word, Kurt's smile tightened and he let go of the car bonnet.

Blaine drove off, dazed and surprisingly (stupidly) sad.


	4. Chapter 4: Welcome to LA

Finn Hudson was never good at shopping. He never understood all the hype over it. To him, clothes were just clothes. Their purpose was to cover your body, and as long as they did exactly that then he honestly didn't care what colour or brand or whatever they were. The same went for smaller stuff like watches or shoes. Fins didn't care as long as the watch was sturdy enough to weather out his clumsy tendencies and as long as the shoes could withstand the seemingly long, arduous hike to and from his mom's house and his job at the local sports store five minutes away.

Which is why Finn was kind of pissed off at Blaine for dragging him along to the LA boardwalk sales. What's worse, they'd only just moved here from Michigan. Between his meagre earnings at the sportswear store and Blaine's father bearing down on him to become the best classical pianist since, well, himself, they didn't have much money at all to be spending at these market things.

And Finn was definitely not digging this warm weather.

However, Blaine's girlfriend-of-the-now, a short but insanely hot blonde chick with wide blue eyes and a damn near perfect body, was tagging along with them. She had this way of walking really slowly and swinging her hips, probably angling for Blaine to stare at her ass, but he never did. Instead, Blaine was too busy haggling down the price of a pair of Armani knock-off loafers, insisting that, "They're last season's design, no way in hell am I paying full price!"

So Finn couldn't really feel bad as he helped himself to the glorious sight of Blaine's girlfriend's ass. Because if no one else was looking, somebody really ought to.

Except... wait, since when was Blaine's girlfriend a brunette?

And since when was she _that _short?

And since when did she wear dinky little plaid skirts and white tights and woolen cardigans?

Finn felt warmth singe his cheeks as he looked up to the fruit stall to see Blaine's girlfriend, Tiffany, laughing her pearly white laugh at a misshapen banana.

His eyes immediately latched back to the perfect ass in front of him, owner unknown, just as said owner turned around and fixed him with a cold glare. She was pretty cute for a girl who dressed like Finn's grandma, defined cheekbones and glittering brown eyes catching him off guard for a moment and Finn swore he could actually see the sun reflected in her fiery chocolate brown irises.

He awkwardly stepped back, almost knocking a table over. "S-sorry. I um, I thought you were someone else and I uh..." He gulped as her gaze turned worryingly nicer. "Please don't call the cops."

"Of course not," the girl said with an enthusiastic shake of her head, "True, your highly inappropriate act of staring at my behind would seem vulgar and frankly disgusting to most young women, but I happen to appreciate the sentiment. Also, it would be rude of me to call the cops on my best friend's ex boyfriend's best friend."

Dumbfounded, Finn tried to sort through the numerous problems with everything the hot granny-girl had just said. He resisted the urge to ask what a sentiment was. "Your ex-best friend's boyfriend's best what?"

The girl sighed dramatically before waving Finn off. "Kurt told me all about Blaine. And his..." the girl gave Finn a calculating once over before a look of bright-eyed recognition found her features. "His _tall _friend. Finn, right? I've seen pictures from the party at UMich."

"Yeah!" Finn laughed, maybe a little too enthusiastically, as he furrowed his brow.

Kurt.

_Kurt. _

The name sounded familiar.

_Oh, right!_

"You know Kurt? And Blaine? Yeah, Blaine told me a little about him. They were kinda friends back in college."

Rachel tittered. "Sure, they were _friends," _she enunciated, giving Finn a knowing smile and an exaggerated wink, and Finn tried to ignore the little butterflies zooming around his tummy, "If that's what people are calling it these days."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean? Kurt and Blaine were totally-"

"Rachel, leave the nice man alone."

Suddenly a willowy guy with immaculately styled hair, snug jeans, white knee-high boots and a pressed dress shirt slid up beside Rachel and hooked his arm through hers. He gave Finn a tight lipped smile, looking him up and down with cool, appraising eyes that really unnerved Finn.

"You look familiar. Do I know you?"

Finn shrugged and opened his mouth to say something before Rachel jumped in first. "Kurt, this is Finn. Don't you remember? You told me all about Blaine's friend Finn from Michigan that time you went to one of those inane frat parties with Quinn."

A look of realisation passed over Kurt's face, blue eyes widening as he made a move to talk. This time, Finn cut him off. "You knew Blaine, right? Hey Blaine, dude! Over here!"

Heaving a sigh, Blaine sucked his teeth and gazed mournfully down at the shoes cradled in his arms. One look from the huffy stall clerk told Blaine that if he gave up the haggle now, he'd never get the same offer again.

"Blaine! Seriously, come here! Some people wanna see you."

He felt his stomach clench up as he gripped the shoes tighter. The clerk merely glared.

"BLAINE!"

Finally, Blaine groaned, rolled his eyes and thrust the shoes back into the stout arms of the store owner. The leather wasn't even patent anyway.

He motioned to Tiffany, who was still smirking at a banana that had an oddly bulbous tip, that he was going to find Finn, but she wasn't looking anyway. Sighing once more, Blaine dragged a hand through his hair and loped off to Finn.

_This had better be worth a new pair of shoes or else I am going to kick his a-_

"Blaine!"

He had to stop himself from tripping over nothing as he saw Kurt Hummel, looking hot as ever, standing in front of him. The sun was placed perfectly just behind his back, rays of light bending around Kurt's form in a way that was almost unfairly flattering. Blaine was kind of dazed, but he kept his cool thanks to years of practise and, well, that term of musical theatre back in college wasn't proving to be entirely useless.

"Kurt! What're you doing here?"

"I just moved here a week ago. I'm in between scripts for my theatre company and I needed some inspiration," Kurt returned with a wide grin. He stepped forwards, arm leaving Rachel's, and cocked his head at Blaine. Blaine resisted the strong urge to hug him, which was weird seeing as Blaine was typically a very affectionate person. But with Kurt, so poised and elegant and seemingly carved from marble, as fragile as he was full-lipped and gorgeous, Blaine felt almost responsible for damages. He felt a red hot blush creep into his cheeks, making Kurt laugh but making Finn's eyebrows knit together in confusion, so he stepped back and coughed.

Cue Tiffany. Right on time.

"Blainey-boo," she cooed, rushing up to Blaine and sticking to his side like a leech. Kurt couldn't curb the icy smile he gave her, taking in her cheap and tacky appearance with distaste. _So Blaine was still firmly in that closet, hey._

"Tiff, this is Kurt," Blaine said, eyes shifting warily between Kurt's, frosty blue and lethal, and Tiffany's, wide and hazel and slightly fearful.

Nonetheless, she took Kurt's shoulders in both hands and gave him an air-kiss above each perfect cheekbone. "Hello! How'd you do?" She said brightly in a broad Texan accent. After stepping back rigidly, Kurt fanned his fingers in a somewhat wave.

_Wow. He must be very firmly in that closet indeed if he is settling for that thing._

"So um... Rachel and I should probably be heading back to our apartment now."

Blaine tried not to look too disappointed. "Oh? Oh, okay. Well why don't I give you my number and we can all hang out some time?"

Humming his approval, Kurt grabbed Blaine's hand and yanked a pen from his pocket, scribbling his number in prominent bright blue cursive into Blaine's palm. Startled, Blaine simply stared at the numbers, his warm skin tingling slightly from where Kurt's cool touch had gripped his knuckles and fingers. Tiffany cleared her throat and smacked her painted lips. She motioned with her head in Kurt's direction, as if trying to speed Blaine up.

Which Kurt didn't like.

In fact, Kurt _really _didn't like this blonde Texan hussy at all. Or the way she seemed to be bossing Blaine around. He felt a flicker of unnecessary protectiveness curl around his chest, and Kurt shook it off nonchalantly.

Like the gentleman he was, Kurt decided he'd let his strong dislike for the girl slide, just this once, as he accepted a crumpled slip of paper which Blaine had hurriedly scrawled his number across. He grinned in thanks at Blaine, gave Tiffany another scathing once over and eyebrow raise, and looped his arm fluidly through Rachel's. Rachel beamed, first at Kurt and then at Blaine, turning to bat her eyes shyly at Finn as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. Kurt snorted, elbowing her gently.

"Ouch! Kurt, you know I bruise easily."

"So do I but at least I don't flaunt my growing sexual tension in public."

Now Rachel was the one to snort in contempt. "You hypocrite! You told me how at that party you and Blaine were practically eyefuc-"

Kurt slapped a hand over Rachel's pathetic blabbermouth before another syllable of totally false, untrue obscenities fell from her totally falsified, untrustworthy lips. If she was in his theatre company, she'd _so _have coffee break duties and double bootcamp for a week.

Kurt looked across at Blaine, beautiful curly-headed, sparkly-eyed, closeted Blaine, and smiled. Rachel waggled her fingertips and giggled like a schoolgirl as Finn met her gaze.

"See you soon, Blaine Anderson."

"See you, Kurt."

With that, Kurt spun himself and Rachel around and dragged her down to the end of the promenade. He could wait to berate her for her astounding lack of tact until they were no longer in a public area.


	5. Chapter 5: La Vie Boheme

A/N: Thank you so much for all your reviews and favourites! I'm glad that you're liking what you're seeing thus far. :P I apologise for the very, very long wait, but this chapter is extra long to make up for it**. **Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong><strong>-YEARS LATER-<strong>**

Blaine whistled tunelessly, slamming the car door shut and gazing up at the looming building in front of him. His dad had always been the luxurious and lazy type, leaving wild ivy to grow in complicated knots and twists all over the red brick walls of his house and insisting it looked better that way, but now the thick green vines seemed to be almost overrunning the place entirely. Blaine knew it would be a pointless argument to try and convince his seventy-something year old dad, a retired musical maestro who'd made somewhat of a fortune back in his day, otherwise. Smoothing down his purple button up shirt, fresh from the dry cleaners', Blaine bit his lip and set off down the pathway. Gravel crunched under his patent Italian leather loafers (a present from his recent ex-girlfriend, Tiffany, who'd dumped him a couple of years back when he refused to comply with her wishes to get married on a beach in Hawaii), and he found himself getting nervous. He hadn't seen his father in a while and Blaine wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see him now. As it was, Blaine had cancelled his lunch plans with a pretty dark-haired girl who played the flute in the orchestra Blaine wrote for, and he was surprised at how little he cared about the cancellation. Really, it was as if he was trading a bone for a bone. Something not so significant for another something that wasn't so significant.

Shoving the wrought iron gates open and toeing a stray dumbell out of his way, Blaine was wondering if it was normal for any healthy twenty three year old guy to feel almost pathetically lethargic all the time when he heard a strained grunting coming from the upper patio.

"Son! Up-" there was a loud heave of breath, "Up here!"

Blaine pushed all worries to the back of his brain and ambled up the stairs to see his father, shirtless and beaming his signature dazzling white grin, wearing nothing more than a small pair of purple swimming trunks and black Aviator sunglasses, uncomfortably white-knuckling a massive barbell. He looked pleased, albeit his features plastered in a half-grimace due to the barbell in his shaking grip, and tried to straighten his slouched back in triumph. Blaine sucked his teeth, unimpressed; judging from the size of the weights, he guessed that their combined mass must have equated to that of a baby elephant.

His father made a move to raise the bar higher, which was when Blaine rushed over quickly, grappling with it in protest. "Dad, what are you doing? You know what Dr. Phillips said about heavy lifting, it could damage your heart!"

Jack Anderson snorted. "Fuck Dr. Phillips. That man knows as much about medicine as I know about damn fairy princesses!" Blaine glared at his father, tightening hid hold on the weight and pulling it down ever so slightly. He had to resist a wry smile when his father's creased-up face reddened, making him let out a resistant puff of air in his struggle to hold the barbell up, but then Blaine simply applied the gentlest of additional pressure to the bar and his father reluctantly lowered it in defeat.

"Wow, Dad," Blaine mused, crossing his arms and observing the thin sheen of sweat drenching his father's wrinkled forehead, "Seems like you actually may have exerted yourself for once."

"Very funny," he grumbled in response, cracking his neck before pushing his shoulders back and standing ramrod straight. Chest out and stomach sucked in, he raised his arms and motioned at his abdomen. "Hit me."

Blaine shook his head, biting back a hoot of laughter at his father's ridiculous posture. "No. I'm not gonna hit you, I don't wanna hurt you."

Jack's eyes narrowed momentarily. "Annunciate every syllable, Blaine. A musician's best instrument is-"

"His voice. I know."

"Good. I did not send you to private school for you to grow up talking like a common hick. Now come on," he pounded his chest lightly, "You're not going to hurt me. Hit me. Give me your best shot!" Blaine tapped his foot impatiently as he watched his dad take a deep breath, clenching his stomach muscles and in effect making thick ropey veins stand out in his neck. "Quick, kid, before I get a hernia!" He spoke through gritted teeth.

"No."

Blaine's answer was resounding, and Jack gave him one last look of bitter disappointment before allowing himself to slouch down again, muscles relaxing and smiling brightly up at his son. "You're right," He nodded, pulling on a toweling robe, "Let's go drink some whiskey."

Sighing, Blaine took off after his father into the cool interior of his manor. The cream coloured walls were bathed in sunlight, the open French windows allowing a gentle breeze to circulate around the spacious living room, and Blaine marveled for a moment at how his father managed to acquire such sumptuous living quarters after being nothing more than a musician. Blaine shrugged off his cardigan, draping it over a kitchen chair, before peeking into the music room.

He leaned against the doorframe and rubbed his temples. _This man is hopeless. _"You bought _another_ piano, dad? Seriously? I thought I told you that you need to save your money after what happened last time."

"There was no last time," Jack insisted, bustling out of the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses and setting all three items down with a loud clatter, "I don't consider a repo man coming in and taking away a stolen piano to be anything of my detriment."

Quelling the desire to oppose his father's lax excuse, Blaine approached the piano slowly. The black polished surface caught the sunlight streaming through a chink in the curtains and shone like obsidian, mesmerising Blaine with every tentative step. Swiping an affectionate, cautious finger over the lid, Blaine smiled to himself as he began to play a nameless song off the top of his head. The sound was soft and sombre, and he could feel his father listening to it from his position at the kitchen counter, maybe as he uncorked the whiskey and took a sneaky swig straight from the bottle. He'd never say so himself, but Blaine had never doubted for a moment why he'd already climbed so far up the rickety rungs of musical hierarchy- his music seemed to connect with people almost instantaneously.

He heard footsteps approaching the door, but Blaine's playing never faltered once.

"You play beautifully," Jack murmured.

Blaine looked up to see his dad standing in the doorway, balancing a half empty bottle of Scotch whiskey and two glasses in his arms. His face was, for once, kind and thoughtful. A small surge of relief coursed through Blaine's veins at the thought of his father being proud of him, and he offered Jack his best and brightest beaming grin.

"Thanks, dad."

Jack made a sort of shrugging motion with his shoulders and head as if waving him off without the use of his hands. "No problem at all. Besides, you don't need me to tell you that you're a stellar pianist, I'm sure that the orchestra appreciates you plenty."

Blaine's smile turned strained, and he allowed the last notes of the unnamed melody to ring out before he stood up from the piano and fumbled in his pocket. _Now's the right moment for this_, Blaine encouraged himself, pulling out a crumpled manuscript and holding it out to his father.

"I wrote it," Blaine started as Jack stooped to set the whiskey and glasses down onto the coffee table, "The song, I mean. I wrote it for the orchestra. I was thinking it could be made into a sonata or something once I got permission from the conductor. I was thinking maybe you could uh... take a look at it sometime?"

He felt his heart beat faster, his mouth go dry as his father finally accepted the proffered piece of paper. Raising a single grey eyebrow and sucking in his age worn cheeks, Jack Anderson raked his eyes down the page once before folding it up and tucking in into the waistband of his swim trunks with an exaggerated wink. "Sure thing, kid." He clapped his hands. "Now, we drink!"

Jack stumbled to his knees, hunched over the short coffee table and already shakily pouring out the whiskey. Blaine decided against reminding his dad about his bad back from the one time someone threw a chair at him in the middle of a concerto. Instead, he plonked down onto both knees as well and raised his glass with his father.

"To you and your future as a musician!"

"Totally," Blaine laughed. They clinked their glasses together, and Blaine took a swig. He grimaced at the taste, the hot burn of the liquor as it slid down his throat, woody and musky and not at all like the cheap tequila and vodka shots he'd been so fond of in college. A single glance at his father, whose facial expression was one of utmost bliss, told him that maybe whiskey was meant to taste so unpleasant.

"Beautiful stuff. An excellent year, too." Jack smacked his lips and topped his glass up hungrily, pausing only to awkwardly nudge Blaine with his elbow. "I save the best for my boy."

"How thoughtful of you."

"I do pride myself in my generosity, yes. That's where you get it from."

"Sure it is, dad." Blaine brought the glass to his mouth once more, wetting his lips with the burning liquid and licking it off hesitantly. He really, really didn't have quite the penchant for fine whiskey that his father evidently did.

"So how've you been? I haven't seen you in at least a month. What happened to that girlfriend of yours, the punk one with the blue hair?"

Blaine casted his mind back to Eva with a thin smirk- tall, headstrong, sexy... and a total bitch. "Didn't work out with her. And anyway, the last time you saw me, I wasn't dating Eva. I'd just started seeing Tiffany."

Jack coughed suddenly, pounding his chest with a tightly curled fist, face turning slightly pink. He waved off Blaine's offer to get him a glass of water. "Tiffany," Jack wheezed between dry coughs, finally slapping the table hard and taking a deep breath. He looked across at Blaine with an uncomfortably vacant expression. "How's things with her?"

"Again, dad, it didn't quite work out." Jack was a little too quick to nod and down the rest of his whiskey. "But I appreciate the interest in my love life."

Jack chuckled. "When have I not been interested? You know, if you need any help reeling in the ladies, I could always give you a couple, y'know," Jack leaned in, hand guarding his mouth in secrecy even though nobody else was in the room except for the two of them, _"tips_, per se."

Clearing his throat, Blaine shook his head. He was certain that he blanched, too. "No thanks, dad, I don't need sex advice from you."

"Are you sure? Because if there's one thing a man learns from being a professional musician-"

"Seriously, it's alright."

"-it's how to eat a girl out."

"Okay, I am officially grossed out beyond the point of coherency."

"Because all women have a thing for men who can play instruments"

"I stopped listening way back when you mentioned eating girls out, dad."

Jack let out a huff of disappointment. He was mumbling something about how back when he was Blaine's age, he'd been irresistible to every woman in sight when a small white ball of barking fluff came whizzing into the room from the lounge, adorned in a little pink bow and a circlet of diamanté.

_Wait, is that a-_

"Dad!" Blaine shrieked, dropping his glass of whiskey and stumbling to stand up, "When did you get a dog?"

"It's not my dog, it's-"

A short but busty girl with a shock of blonde wavy hair skidded into the room after the ratty dog, clad in nothing more than revealing green lingerie and fluffy rabbit slippers. She brushed past Blaine, scooped up the dog, and placed a sloppy kiss on his father's blushing cheek. "Hello, Blaine!"

Blaine felt like he'd just been slapped in the face with a brick. "T-Tiffany? What are you- I mean, why are you-" Blaine shot an alarmed look at his father, whose arm was hooked around Tiffany's slender middle, and put the pieces together. "Dad! You're... you're _fucking my ex-girlfriend?"_

"Now, Blaine, be rational here," Jack said calmly, letting go of Tiffany and reaching out to his son. Blaine bolted away, still in shock. He was staring at each of them in turn. It wasn't that he was jealous that his dad had Tiffany. In fact, Blaine found himself not caring in the slightest about who any of his exes chose to have sex with. It was just the whole idea of his dad helping himself to Blaine's sloppy seconds and ew, okay, this is _so_ disgusting.

Tiffany's face fell. "You didn't tell him, Jack?" With a howl, she left the room, clutching her precious pomeranian to her chest.

"Jesus Christ, dad, a little heads up would've been nice!"

"What was I meant to say? 'Oh by the way, son, I'm in love with your ex-girlfriend'?"

Blaine was practically spluttering by now. "Yes! Something along those hideous, hideous lines, yes!"

He didn't know why, but he had the sudden urge to punch his father in the gut.

So he did.

And _ohfuckohfuckohfuck yep, that hurt._

"Shit," Blaine swore, cradling his hand and squeezing his eyes shut to wish away the pain, "You really have been working out."

"I told you so."

Blaine looked up at his dad, disgusted. He felt sick to his stomach, and he had no idea why. Wordlessly, he made for the door.

* * *

><p>"...and that's when she came in. With a fucking dog."<p>

Finn winced, rubbing Blaine's back sympathetically. "Ouch, man. That's rough."

Blaine snorted, rolling his eyes and taking another thirsty swig of his ice cold beer. "You don't know the half of it. The man is a fucking nymphomaniac."

Usually, Blaine tended to tone down the swearing. But he felt he was entitled to some form of stress relief, and hardly anyone was in the bar at this stupidly early hour of 5PM anyway, so why the _fuck fucking _not.

"How old is he again? Like, eighty or something?"

"Just turned seventy three last month. Somehow, he still gets laid."

"Dude." Finn whistled, grinning. He was very easily impressed, even in his early twenties, and for some reason, he enjoyed the fact that an old man with a wrinkly ass could still have a thriving love life. "I hope I have his libido when I'm that old. How awesome would that be?"

Blaine furrowed his brow, turning fully to give Finn a look of disbelief. "You _know_ the word 'libido', Finn? Have I finally taught you something?"

"Nope!" Finn replied happily, a familiar look of dopey joy crossing his fair features that was reminiscent of their adolescent days, "I've been playing Scrabble with my mom all weekend and I read the dictionary because she confiscated all of my porn magazines because I wouldn't take the trash out."

Blaine blinked. "That's lovely. But of you don't mind, I have other things to worry about than your lack of homely hygiene." Belching loudly (yet another thing Blaine hadn't done publicly for a long, long time), he proceeded to fish around his jeans pocket for his phone. He pulled it out, and Finn watched as Blaine studied it with intent eyes for roughly three minutes straight before even opening it. "I'm going to call up everyone I know until I find someone who will have sex with me. Tiffany can suck my dick. Or rather," Blaine held his phone at arm's length and then brought it right up close to squint at the cracked screen, "Anthony Brewitt from inventory, 555 4126, can do it instead."

"Nice one," Finn laughed. He reached for his beer when suddenly- hey. Snapping his head back to look at Blaine, Finn was more confused than ever. Like, _ever._ "Blaine, dude, Anthony is a guy's name."

"I am aware of that, yes." Blaine didn't look up from adamantly scrolling through his contacts.

"I thought you only liked guys when you're super, super drunk and can't tell the difference anymore?"

"Oh, is that what I told you?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Blaine gave a whoop of joy, finally settling on a phone number, and chugged the rest of his beer in anticipation. He brought the phone to his ear, meeting Finn's wide-eyed stare and nodding. "This might be a good time to tell you that I think I might be gay."

Finn opened his mouth to say something before shutting it. He took a long gulp of his beer first. "Well, that's cool, man. I don't care who you like because you're Blaine, right, and you're my best friend, and the fact that you like dudes doesn't change that for me because I've always respected gay guys for being so brave and stuff like that and did you know that there are so many gay football players? Yeah. Like-"

"Heya, Kevin," Blaine cooed down the phone, voice deeper and more gruff than usual. He licked his lips and motioned to the bartender for another beer. Liquid courage was all he needed right now. "It's Blaine. Yes, the piano guy. And you're the inventory guy. So I was wondering, Kevin O'Brady," Blaine paused to crack open the fresh beer and take a long swig, "If maybe you'd like to get all up in _my _inventory tonight?"


	6. Chapter 6: First Time's the Charm

_**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait between updates! I am really slow in general at writing, but I hope this whopper of a chapters will suffice (OVER 5,000 WORDS, HOLLA~). Warning: **HERE BE SMUT**. This is the first time I have ever written actual sex, so if it is really awful then I apologise in advance. This one sex scene alone was the combined product of three cups of coffee and two cigarettes, and seeing as how this entire film concept revolved around sex scenes, I have no idea how I will cope with the rest of this fic without it resulting in two ruined lungs and a caffeine addiction to boot._

_PS: I stupidly wrote this chapter with the notion that I had not mentioned Mercedes yet in the story, which I actually had done in Chapter 2 by referring to her as Kurt's best friend at NYU. How's about we forget that ever happened, eh? No harm, no foul, just fic.  
><em>

_Thank you so much for sticking with me on this crazy attempt to Klaine-ify such a great film! Hopefully, I won't disappoint!_

_Without further ado, here's chapter six..._

* * *

><p>Bitter.<p>

His mouth tasted bitter and thick and his whole body felt oddly cool.

Groaning, Blaine cracked open a wary eyelid. Bright sunshine flooded his vision, temporarily dazzling him before he heaved his heavy bones and sat upright. He was, thankfully, seated on a plush sofa, curling his toes absently into the fluffy white rug on the floor. Blaine blinked rapidly, gripping the armrest of the sofa with a shaky fist, and finally the room itself came into focus.

It was completely unfamiliar.

The walls were a glossy light red, almost pink in the harsh morning sunlight which the matte black furniture repelled. Everything in sight was either red, black, or white, and Blaine was hugely unaccustomed to a space this large being so well matched- his own apartment was messily furnished with a cracked brown leather sofa, second hand kitchen utensils and the same bed he'd had as a kid. Here, not a single item was out of place, not a single object mismatching the stylish, striking palette of colours. Blaine felt increasingly out of place. He let out a loud sigh and stretched his aching neck and arm muscles, feeling like he could really use a glass of water when he happened to look down at his lap and-

Oh.

_Oh._

_I'm naked. That's interesting_

"Damn, white boy."

He yelped in surprise at the voice, scrabbling to cover his private parts with a silky maroon throw pillow before daring to look up at the curvy African American girl standing by the breakfast bar next to him, hands on her hips and shaking her head with a smile. He gulped.

The girl raised her arms, chuckling. "Calm down, sweetie, I wasn't going to pounce on you or something. It's just me, remember?" She took in Blaine's look of utter confusion, hazy olive eyes hooded by thick lashes and knitted eyebrows, and smiled sympathetically. "Oh. You don't remember my name, do you? That's okay. It's Mercedes. And you look like you could use some coffee."

Blaine could only managed a muted "Thanks", squirming uncomfortably on the sofa and pressing the pillow as far down over himself as he could. His mind was reeling as he watched Mercedes pour him a steaming cup of coffee- did he have _sex _with her last night? All Blaine remembered was being in a bar with Finn and venting about Tiffany and then oh yeah, he'd outed himself soon after that, an awkward moment make lighter with the help of copious shots of tequila and bottle after bottle of beer, so it's no surprise that the rest of the night was pretty much nonexistent as far as Blaine's memory was going.

He looked at his lap.

He looked at Mercedes.

He threw back his mind to old college days.

Yep, he was pretty sure that an intoxicated hook-up was more than likely to have happened.

Blaine searched the floor with narrowed eyes, scoping the rest of the room carefully.

Thankfully, nothing seemed to be broken, meaning Curvy-Black-Girl (_Mercedes, _Blaine reminded himself) wouldn't be waving a list of ruined items in his face and demanding that he pay for damages. He'd had enough of those incidents to last him a long time.

"Um, have you seen my uh... where are my pants?" Blaine asked, feeling a hot blush creep into his cheeks, arching his back to peer behind the sofa and pulling back the cushions with interest.

Mercedes shrugged as she passed him a mug. "No idea. They could be anywhere." She paused to giggle, and bite her lip. "You like to put on a little show, don't you?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

Mercedes sat down next to him, feigning and failing to be subtle when she eyed his body up and down with avid curiosity. Blaine shifted uncomfortably once more, took a shaky sip of his coffee, and carefully set it down onto the coffee table. Mercedes hissed in alarm, quickly shoving a crimson foam coaster underneath the perspiring mug just in time for it to land safely.

She smiled apologetically. "Sorry. House rules. Don't blame me, I didn't write them."

Mercedes offered a thin smile again, placing a hand on his shoulder momentarily before pulling away and looking at the floor. Blaine found himself panicking. If he'd had sex with her last night- and that was a definitive _if_- it would only be polite to make small conversation.

"So," Blaine started, clearing his throat and looking steadily into Mercedes' eyes, "Did you have a... good time? Last night, I mean?"

"It was alright. Nothing special, really," she shrugged, frowning in thought as she stood up again and headed to the kitchen. She grabbed a tea towel and balled it up, proceeding to toss it at Blaine's o-mouthed face. "Here, this will do the-" She motioned around her crotch at pointed to Blaine- "Job easier."

"Oh. Thank you." Quickly, Blaine swapped the pillow for the towel and tried not to exude how awkward he felt. _Come on, Blaine, stop being an ass. Everyone likes a gentleman._ "So, Mercedes..."

"Yes?"

"I want you to know that I respect you."

She blinked away a smile, licking her lips and tapping the sideboard with her nails. "Thank you."

"It's just that... well, I'd usually remember the name of someone that I've-"

He was interrupted by Mercedes coughing loudly, seemingly choking on a mouthful of coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"

Blaine let out a shaky breath, biting his lip and making intricate hand gestures. "You know someone I've uh..."

"Oh my god, white boy," Mercedes laughed incredulously, "Did you think we had sex? My lo- We did- we did not have sex!"

Blaine barely had time to process her words before a tanned chick in a short green dress and knee-high boots strutted into view, bending down and cocking her head as she gazed into his eyes. Blaine noted that whilst she was indeed very pretty, with thick black hair and heavily made up brown eyes that would've made princesses weep, her prying half-smile kind of unnerved Blaine. She looked as if she was evaluating a meal.

"Hey Blainers," she trilled sweetly, removing an arm from behind her back and dangling two bring pink pieces of material in front of his face, "You left your socks in my room. As much as I like presents, these are tackier than the shirt you were wearing last night so I'll politely decline." She dropped them into his lap before stepping closer, hitching her chest up so that her breasts were dauntingly close to Blaine's face. He couldn't help flinching back a little. "You sure are a looker. Gotta give you that much."

"Down, girl," Mercedes said warningly, "Blaine isn't interested in your impressive lady chest parts."

"Yeah, well, he'd be the first. And I like my guys with curly hair." She stood up, looking down at Blaine's wide and fearful eyes with an exaggerated wink. "Gives me something to hold onto."

Mercedes shook her head. "Santana, you're a lesbian."

"No shit, Wheezy. What's your point? I can appreciate a fine man and still be gay."

Blaine cleared his throat, trying and succeeding to catch the scary Latina girl's attention (Santana, was it?). "Did I uh, happen to leave my pants in your room, too?"

Santana grinned evilly, perching atop the armrest at the opposite end of the sofa and fixing Blaine with another calculating look. "No. When we met, by some insane blessing, you weren't wearing any. Nice ass, by the way."

Blaine felt the light blush in his cheeks go positively beetroot.

A disapproving tutting sound came from down the hall, and a short girl in wooly tights and an offensively loud tartan skirt flounced into the room. "Stop teasing him, guys. That is not how we treat a guest."

"Rachel! I know you!" Blaine blurted in relief, snatching onto her hand when she folded herself next to Blaine on the sofa.

She smiled at him warmly, patting his hand. "Ignore them. They're just having a little fun."

Santana snorted. "Yeah. Fun. You should try it sometime, Berry."

"Santana, I will do you the favour of ignoring your totally unwarranted and frankly cruel comment because I have better things to do than tend to your random outbursts of needless negativity," Rachel replied, tone firm and very clipped, eyes barely flickering with the slightest hint of angry fire. Clearly, she was used to putting Santana in her place, and it seemed to work because the offending girl simply muttered something in hushed Spanish as she yanked her boots up higher, not bothering to offer a scathing retort. Mercedes rolled her eyes at the two and drained the rest of her coffee in one gulp.

"Just ignore Santana," Rachel spoke kindly, squeezing Blaine's clammy hand and not seeming disturbed in the least by Blaine's naked state, "She's still bitter because her girlfriend won't talk to her and now she's taking out her anger due to pent up sexual frustration on the rest of us."

At that, Santana couldn't repress an irritated scoffed, cold eyes boring figurative holes in the back of Rachel's skull.

"Rachel," Blaine spoke softly, pulling her hand closer and in turn causing Rachel to lean in further, "I have a question. And it'll sound awful and I'm stupidly embarrassed, but I need to ask it."

"Shoot."

He liked his lips carefully and took a deep breath, allowing a necessary pause before rapidly whispering, "What happened last night?"

Rachel looked confused. "You don't remember any of it?"

Panic flooded Blaine's stomach. "Did we... did we ha-"

"Yes!" Santana exclaimed, leaping off the armrest and scurrying forward to crouch in front of Blaine, "We had sex!" She bit her lip coyly, meeting Blaine's bemused expression, and began stroking the skin of his knees with deft, manicured fingers. "I really liked it," She said seriously, huskily, "I didn't know that my body could handle that much pain, and that I would like it."

"Bullshit, Santana, everyone knows that you have multiple kinks for far worse things than rough sex."

The snarky, bubbly, almost musical voice carried from the hallway, and to Blaine's utter shock and mild excitement, a fluffy-haired Kurt Hummel clad only in a plush white bathrobe emerged from the dim doorway. He smiled at Blaine brightly, reaching for the coffee pot.

"I see you're up, Blaine.

"K-Kurt! You live here?" Blaine asked dumbly. He honestly could've kicked himself.

Kurt sucked his teeth, raising his eyebrows before replying slowly. "Yep."

"Oh."

"You feeling any better?"

Shuddering slightly, Blaine sighed and reached up to rub the back of his neck. "I have no idea. I don't remember how I was feeling last night to compare."

Kurt let out a small laugh, and Blaine was surprised to feel that infamous blush creeping back into his cheeks. "And by that, I take it that you don't remember? Anything?" Kurt paused to whistle loudly, eyes widening comically. "Jesus Christ, Blaine, I don't know whether that is a curse or a blessing."

"A blessing, definitely," Mercedes interjected.

Blaine looked at the three girls (plus Kurt) steadily, momentarily holding Santana's suggestive gaze long enough for her to wiggle her eyebrows at him. He gulped and cleaed his throat nervously. "Okay, here's the thing: did I have sex with anyone in this apartment last night?"

Kurt smiled and shook his head. "No," was the resounding reply.

Santana groaned and got to her feet, hands planted on her hips and glaring toxic daggers at Kurt. "Hummel, you gotta stop spending so much time with Unpopped-Cherry Berry. Her well-honed disease of an ability to totally suck the fun out of my life is slowly infecting you too."

"Bite me, Santana," Kurt said with a small wink, and Santana cracked a wide grin and blew him a kiss. She turned back to Blaine and ruffled his messy curls apologetically. "Sorry for getting your hopes up. The last guy who tapped this turned out to be a bisexual pornstar, so I suppose I am saving you a lot of post traumatic therapy."

"Oh. That's... considerate of you."

"Damn straight it is." Santana stared at a fixed spot on the wall wistfully, cradling her elbow. "Mr. Fuckerman Puckerman owes me his freaking career."

Rachel dug her elbow into Blaine's side, tilting her head at Santana. "If you think she's mean now, you should've seen her in high school. One time she stole my clothes during gym class and sold them to a charity store across the road."

Santana snorted. "Please. I was doing you a favour. Plus, I was being charitable. I'm sure the store was happy to accept your ugly knitted sweater and penny loafers. Your awful taste in clothing will have made some frumpy little ten year old so very happy"

Rachel's lips thinned to a snarl as she met Santana's eyes and narrowed her own. "It was a charity store _for the elderly."_

"So? Didn't Kurt once say that you somehow dress like a toddler and a grandmother at the same time?"

Grumbling, Rachel flipped her hair and settled into the back of the sofa, arms crossed defiantly over her red v-neck sweater, and Santana flopped down cross-ankled onto the sofa opposite.

"Sexual misinformation and high school shenanigans aside," Kurt mused, fixing Blaine with a stunning blue-eyed smile, "I have your pants. Come on." Kurt disappeared through the door.

Blaine could have died from the sheer flood of relief that suddenly coursed through him. "Yes! Thank you!"

He stood up eagerly, towel pressed over his front and pillow surreptitiously clamped over his hind quarters, and he tried not to feel like a total idiot in front of the three pairs of intently staring eyes.

"Oh, you don't need to feel embarrassed, we're all in theatre." Rachel soothed calmly, looking up at Blaine with frighteningly encouraging eyes. "The socially accepted gender lines separating the boys' and girls' changing rooms literally blur into nothing after opening night, so we see tons of penises many times a week."

"To my girlfriend's dismay, I see thousands," Santana assured him.

Mercedes nodded vigorously. "Yesterday I was helping a casting director pick out a suitable guy for the lead role in _Equus _and they all had to be naked for half the audition. So we are cool with penises here."

"We're professionals, if you will," Rachel implored.

Blaine hesitated, still pressing the pillow and towel against himself stiffly. _Oh, what the hell, I don't want to get their pillow all gross._

He let the pillow drop and strode forwards nonchalantly to follow Kurt, bare ass on show.

To his dismay, a slow clap began from behind him.

"Oh, Bravo!" Rachel breathed

"Bravo indeed. _Damn, _that is a fine ass."

"Fuck."

"Santana, again: you're _gay_."

"Mercedes, again: fuck off. I would totally tap that, sexual orientation be damned."

"So how did I get here?" Blaine mumbled, clutching the towel over his crotch awkwardly.

Kurt smirked as he opened his bedroom door with flourish and they both stepped wordlessly into the immaculate interior. It was just as painfully, irritatingly clean and well-dressed in uniform colours as the lounge area was, except in stark black and white instead of striking variations of red, white and black.

"Well, you called me," Kurt began, rummaging around in the far corner of the room and leaving Blaine standing just inside the doorway, "And you sounded pretty hammered. I was afraid you were out somewhere doing damage, which I still have no doubt you were, so I did what any idiot desperate for some amusement would do and gave you my address. The second you got in, you started pulling off all your clothes and swinging them all over the place. I literally had to hold Santana back by her weave." He let out a noise of success, holding up a pair of crumpled jeans. "Ah hah! Your pants!"

Blaine sat down on the bed and was sure to sit on the better part of the towel for sanitary purposes- bed butt-prints were just embarrassing. Kurt tossed the jeans to him, and Blaine was glad to have caught them in a one-handed grasp instead of letting Kurt throw his pants square into his face. "Thanks," he mumbled, pulling them on. Blaine could feel Kurt's eyes, Kurt's gentle yet fiercely confident and curious eyes, scanning his fumbling body as he pulled the jeans up his legs with great difficulty, surreptitiously pulling the towel out from beneath himself when he could. He met Kurt's gaze, gulping when he saw the obvious enjoyment in his delicate grey-blue irises.

"So did I just like... come in here and strip and then pass out on your couch?"

"Oh, no," Kurt said solemnly, arms crossed over his chest and tiny flicker of humour in his eyes, "You kind of, uh, well, it was a dance of sorts."

"A... a dance?"

"Yeah. Like this-" Kurt promptly unfolded his arms, raised one into the air and grabbing one long end of the tied-off robe belt with the other. Cheering loudly, to Blaine's horror, he pumped his fist and rotated his hips rhythmically (which Blaine struggled not to enjoy on some unconscious level), swinging the belt in circles in front of his crotch, all the while chanting something equally ghastly regarding how one should look at his dick. Blaine was worried that the others back in the hall could hear him.

Blaine furrowed his brow.

Wait.

Was the belt meant to be symbolic for his-

"_I shook my dick at you?"_

Kurt laughed, genuinely this time, dropping his arms and brushing away a fallen strand of hair from his forehead. "Yes, you did." He saw the look of pure, unadulterated shame on Blaine's face, all pink cheeks and large glittery puppy eyes, and felt a little bad. But just a little.

Blaine was looking up at Kurt through thick lashes, blinking slowly. "Did you look?"

"Hell yeah I looked! Men don't usually put on little performances for me, and I'm not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth." Kurt looked thoughtful for a moment. "It was nice. You have a really nice penis."

"Oh, why thank you, kind Mr. Hummel."

"Anytime, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine couldn't help it. He felt so, phenomenally embarrassed. He sat there and hung his head, cradling his sweaty forehead his his right palm and considering his next course of action.

"Hey, it's okay," Kurt murmured after a while, slowly padding over to perch next to Blaine on the bed. He snaked an arm around his back, placing it between his shoulder blades, and the movement was entirely too reminiscent of a certain day back at Camp Sunshine Rivers. Blaine turned to look at Kurt, odd curls sticking up and some slicked to the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, eyes big and hazel and inquisitive.

"I'd better get ready for work," Kurt said softly."

"Yeah."

Kurt bit his lip. He didn't know what he was doing, what was domineering his motor control when he raised his other hand and began ghosting his fingertips over the slightly stubbly expanse of Blaine's jaw, watching the way his mouth fell open and feeling his breath stutter against his arm. Blaine's mind was absolutely swimming by this point. He didn't know where to look, what to think, how to feel about Kurt's hands touching him so gently and sweetly and, oh god, he had to do something. Inching his hand away from his own lap, Blaine sent it on slow journey up Kurt's bare thigh, creeping up his soft skin, stroking over the plush cottony material of the robe itself.

Kurt's fingers were carding through Blaine's hair now, both their breathing speeding up. Blaine's hand was closing in on the loose knot of Kurt's robe, fingering the lazily tied belt with slight hesitance.

Blaine began tugging at it. "I should be getting home soon."

"Yeah," Kurt breathed, leaning in a little further, dragging the fingers of his left hand underneath Blaine's strong jaw and massaging his scalp with the other. He had no idea what he was doing or why, but it had been ages since Kurt had gotten laid and Blaine looked so sexy like this, all ruffled and befuddled. Kurt breathed him in; he smelled musky and warm, with a hint of vanilla, and it was damn hot.

"Kurt-"

"Blaine?"

_Fuck this._

Hungrily, Blaine lunged forward and caught Kurt's lips with his own. To his great, _great _relief, Kurt pressed forwards and kissed back just as grinned into the kiss, grabbing the front of Kurt's robe and yanking him down so that Kurt's chest was hovering inches above his own, wrapping both arms around his back in an effort to get closer. As Kurt's hands tangled themselves in Blaine's thick curls, running his tongue along his bottom lip and occasionally sucking the semi swollen flesh into his mouth, pushing Blaine further up the bed until their bodies were pressed flush together, Blaine decided that he hated clothes. Like, a lot.

"We're gonna do this," Blaine said breathlessly, pulling back for a moment to give Kurt a questioning look, "We- we are doing this, right?"

Whimpering, Kurt rutted his hips against Blaine to show him how very right he was. "Definitely."

"Okay."

Their lips crashed together forcefully, urgently, an almost tangible fire surging between them.

Kurt whined when Blaine twisted his head away to speak, clawing at a fistful of Kurt's soft white robe. "This should come off now," he said in a rush.

Nodding in agreement, Kurt sat up on Blaine's hips. Blaine stroked up and down Kurt's thighs, watching. He loved the feeling of Kurt straddling him. He probably wasn't meant to love it as much as he did, but frankly there was nothing hotter than Kurt Hummel sitting on top of your crotch and, to Blaine's shock and delight, grinding down slightly. Kurt smirked as Blaine let out a throaty moan, eyes fluttering shut and then open again, and practically tore the robe off in one quick movement. Blaine caught a gust of its heady scent as Kurt tossed it across the bed- it smelled like spices and a dash of coffee and something else that was uniquely Kurt.

But as he let his hands wander, Blaine knew couldn't let himself get caught up in silly little romantic thoughts because right now, he just needed to _feel._

Kurt took Blaine's face in both hands and kissed him roughly, tongue flickering inside and lapping at the warm, intoxicating heat of Blaine's mouth. Blaine kissed back hungrily as his hands moved lower to grip Kurt's hips, pushing them further down onto his own. Unable to suppress another needy whine, Kurt gasped against Blaine's open mouth as a familiar heat flickered inside the pit of his stomach. Kurt, gnawing at Blaine's bottom lip and ignoring his better judgement, was powerless not to thrust up against Blaine's growing hardness and _oh._

Blaine _growled._

And it was really, really hot.

"Condom?" Kurt looked up at Blaine, cheeks bright red and breath coming in short pants. Blaine didn't even need to answer. "Condom. Yes." Kurt was speaking to himself now, shuffling along to his side of the bed to rifle through the drawer.

Blaine, meanwhile, made quick work of removing his pants and seemed maybe a little too keen when Kurt waved the small square of foil in his face.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Nodding with appreciation, an action which at the time seemed totally appropriate, Blaine ripped open the wrapper and fumbled to roll in onto himself.

Kurt stifled a scoff of laughter when he saw Blaine's difficulty with the offending item. "Do you need help?" He asked sweetly, propping himself up onto an elbow and batting his lashes.

Blaine rolled his eyes, irritated. "No. I can manage."

"Hurry up, then!"

With a whoop of triumph, Blaine gestured to himself proudly. "Okay, got it!"

"Good," Kurt said, relieved, grabbing Blaine by the shoulders and pulling him into a quick and sloppy kiss, trailing his hands lower and lower. Blaine had definitely toned up since that fateful night at Sunshine Rivers. Blaine growled again, cupping Kurt's ass through his underwear before moving his hand to palm Kurt roughly through the thin material at the front, swallowing Kurt's breathless (and stupidly sexy) gasp eagerly.

"We should get these off," Blaine said, the vibrations of his gruff voice going straight to Kurt's almost painful cock. He was still fingering the waistband of his boxers clumsily when Kurt nodded.

Blaine sat back for a moment, sucking at his red and raw lower lip as he yanked Kurt's boxer's over his hips. They caught on the head of his dick.

"Sorry, I uh-"

"It's fine, just hurry up."

"Okay, awesome."

"Yeah."

Blaine tugged them all the way off, blinking in awe at the now very exposed Kurt.

"What position do you want me in?"

Blaine blinked. "I don't know very many."

Kurt sighed heavily, hooking his legs around Blaine's middle to pull him closer. Blaine took the rather obvious hint, kneeling in front of Kurt's bent legs. Kurt snuggled further down into the pillows and met Blaine's gaze, proceeding to prop his knees over each of Blaine's shoulders.

"Okay so now you just... yeah. Is this okay?"

Blaine leaned down, eyes intense and pupils blown with lust, and practically attacked Kurt's mouth with his own, licking hard at his tongue and biting his upper lip. He pulled away reluctantly. "It's awesome."

"Everything is awesome to you."

"Shh." Blaine grasped Kurt's hips, positioning himself at Kurt's entrance. "Wait, do you need, like, fingers first?"

"Nope, fingered myself in the shower," Kurt babbled with a throaty groan when he felt the tip of Blaine's cock against his tingling skin, squirming in vain to get more pressure. "Just _do it."_

With that, Blaine took a deep breath and pushed inside.

And holy fuck.

They let out simultaneous moans of arousal, Kurt throwing his head back and gripping the quilt tightly. Blaine was already sweating, digging his fingers into the pale skin of Kurt's hips, stars dancing in front of his eyes.

_So this is what it's like to fuck a guy sober._

"Blaine," Kurt hissed, grinding himself further onto Blaine, "Please move, oh god, please just- yeah, like that."

Blaine slid his hands from Kurt's hips, dragging the left one over Kurt's leaking cock briefly enough to wring a cry of wanton _desire _from his parted lips, and settling them on his thighs. Blaine was panting hard now, thrusts rough and rhythmic and it all felt so damn perfect that Blaine just kept going faster and faster, desperate to feel, desperate to encourage Kurt to keep making those soft, ragged gasping sounds.

"Hey," Blaine said, "We're having sex." He accentuated the point by locking eyes with Kurt and pushing in all the way, finally hitting Kurt's spot dead on and causing him to completely let go of the loud, urgent cry that he had clearly been holding in for a long time.

"I know," was all Kurt could manage.

A loud rapping at the door made Blaine freeze mid thrust, eyes snapping up to glare at the shut door ruefully.

"Kurt?" A muffled voice asked, probably Mercedes', "Kurt, we gotta be at the theatre in ten. What are you doing in there?"

"N-Nothing!" Kurt hollered, clearing his throat, "We're still looking for Blaine's pants."

"Well, lend him a pair of yours, we gotta go!"

"He won't fit mine."

"Yeah," Blaine interjected, trying his best to smooth the newly acquired rough edge to his voice, "It's too tight."

Kurt's eyed widened as he stared at Blaine. Blaine thought back to the phrasing of the sentence, sparing a though for the drawn out silence on Mercedes' part.

He wanted to kick himself.

Which he couldn't do with his dick up Kurt's ass.

"I mean, they would be too tight for me to fit into," Blaine said, face ashen, "Kurt's jeans. Too tight."

Mercedes' reply was quite thin. "Yeah yeah, okay, just finish up soon."

Once they were certain she'd left the doorway, Kurt sat up precariously and grabbed Blaine's chin. "Okay, you need to be quieter."

"So do you, hypocrite!"

"Whatever. You have forty seconds to pull your shit together or I will donate your pants to the costume department to be used as part of Fagin's costume in our production of _Oliver."_

"Fuck you."

"Yes, please."

Blaine pulled out and thrust in, hard and fast, and Kurt groaned as he fell back into the welcoming pillows, fisting a hand in the soft material. A few thrusts later, both of them holding back as much noise as possible, Kurt slapped at the duvet in warning.

"Blaine- I'm gonna- I'm- oh my go-"

Blaine reached down and clamped a hand over Kurt's mouth as he let out a muffled scream of ecstasy, coming all over his chest and Blaine's lower stomach. Blaine felt the familiar hot clench in his abdomen and before he knew it, he too let out a loud yelp which Kurt promptly stifled with a hand. They both stayed, tense and unwound and panting softly into each other's hands, until their breathing had slowed considerably. Shakily, Blaine pulled out and lay down next to Kurt.

"So," Blaine began, staring at the ceiling, "That was.. that was-"

"That was good."

"Yeah."

"It was... it was really good."

"Yeah."

Kurt turned to Blaine, the red hot blush in his cheeks having died down to a comfortable and adorable pink. "Let's not tell anyone about this."

"Sure," Blaine agreed. Who was he going to tell, anyway? Finn? His dad?

"Great." Kurt let out a small sound of confirmation before leaning across and pecking Blaine lightly on the lips. "Now grab your pants and get out, because I have a show to tend to."

"Ever the gentleman, Mr. Hummel."

"Indeed."


	7. Chapter 7: To Days Of Inspiration

**A/N: **Hey, guys! I am so, so sorry for the long wait, but i finally typed up another chapter. I know, right: I need to hurry my stupid self up. I know it's pretty short, dear readers, but I'm planning on having chapter eight up by Friday at the very latest. They bleed into each other, so I need to get it done if not for my own personal need for things to make sense but as an apology for being so grotesquely slow with my updates!

Also, minor OCs and one slightly more major familiar face make a cameo appearance. Don't be worried though: anyone who's seen the original "No Strings Attached" film will know that he's just there to stir up a little drama.

* * *

><p>"Can I get a spotlight on Roger?"<p>

"Sure thing."

Kurt chewed the eraser tip of his pencil absently, watching as a thick beam of yellowed light tore a gash through the otherwise inky darkness and illuminated the short shaggy blonde man at centre stage. James Waters, aka Roger for all intents and purposes of Stylus Players' local production of RENT, blinked bewilderedly up at Kurt, awaiting instruction and trying not to clench his fists too tightly in relation to his previous comments from the no-nonsense director up in the balcony ("James, you're frustrated, not trying to take a dump!").

Kurt bit the eraser hard, grimacing ever so slightly as a bitter rubbery taste filled his mouth before cocking his head at the stage in front of him. The set was minimalist, to say the least. Possibly a little too Brecht for musical theatre, with stark lighting and a severe lack of props, but Kurt was never one for utmost conformity. Horizons were there to be broadened.

Also, costumes were expensive and it's not like they had infinite room in the dressing room cupboards.

Humming to himself, Kurt's keen eye swooped to the already grubby pages of the master script, which lay dog-eared and thoroughly leafed through on the desk. "Shouldn't he have a guitar for this scene?" He wondered aloud.

"Huh?" A loud cough resounded through the theatre, its pea-sized source shielding his eyes in the bright light. James looked more puzzled than ever, awkwardly toeing at something invisible in front of him. In fact, all attributes and quirks considered, James would've made a fitting Marc.

Kurt sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Not you, James. Tony? Tony!"

"I-I'll get him, sir," James called out in what he probably hoped was a nonchalant voice as he awkwardly turned heel and sped haphazardly offstage.

Kurt lowered his head into his heads, groaning. His pencil slid from his now slippery grasp and fell with a soft patter to the floor, rolling God knows where under God knows which seat. Kurt was too busy wallowing in self-pity to care. How was he supposed to direct a whole freaking musical when his freaking techs and freaking stage hands were on a perpetual freaking lunch break? Tugging a hand through the back of his hair and drowsily rubbing at his eyes with the other, Kurt looked over his notes for the scene. At the very top of the first page, right under all of the original stage directions, Kurt had written "GUITAR!" in perfectly looped cursive.

Guitar.

Did Blaine play guitar? Kurt was sure he did. His father was a musician, after all. A vague memory surfaced of fourteen year old Blaine Anderson, strumming along with the camp counsellors back in Sunshine Rivers during campfire time and poring needlessly over books filled with chords and chord progressions in his spare time. Kurt remembered how focused he would become, his large amber-flecked hazel eyes focussed intently beneath knitted eyebrows, lips pursed.

And then of course came the more recent memories of urgent kisses, of a way too talented tongue laving at his own as their mouths struggled never to part even for breath, of callused fingers dancing over his back, digging into his thighs, pressing up inside of him and forcing Kurt to make sounds he'd never deemed possible.

"Sorry," a voice crackled over the speakers, "My daughter called from UCLA. You wanted me, boss?"

Kurt blinked hard, face probably of a similar bewildered expression to James's default. His heart was pounding rapidly, the ghosts of guitar-string callused fingers still caressing his neck in light, tingling strokes, and the only thing that brought Kurt back to reality was Tony's sudden tapping of his microphone up at the lighting board.

"Yeah, Tony, glad you could make it back," Kurt said firmly, pulling another pencil from behind his left ear in lieu of its fallen brother. Kurt had to get some air. Get some coffee, maybe. Or possibly just jerk off. "Did you talk to costume about getting a guitar for Roger?"

"Oh. I uh...um..." The sound of paper snapping furiously as Tony evidently searched for an unknown item carried down the microphone and projected through the speakers. "Not yet, Mr. Hummel, sir. They need to go down to Goodwill and pick one up."

_Okay, Kurt, keep calm and breathe evenly. _"I specifically asked for it in time for today's rehearsal," Kurt replied after a beat, sucking his teeth and gripping the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He was _so _going to fire someone's ass today unless he got out soon.

"Did you?"

"Yeah, Tony. I did," Kurt snapped, "And if it isn't here yet then we literally cannot block any scenes with Roger in them, meaning that we literally have a scene and a half of this show checked off, meaning that I need to go get coffee before I murder somebody."

A tinny, breathless cough sounded from somewhere in the wings. "Mr. Hummel, sir, I can go get you a coffee if you want! Really, it's no probl-"

"Thanks, James, but I think I can cope. Everybody take fifteen. And," Kurt flipped the switch on his mini microphone propped atop the desk, being sure that it was wired to reach backstage and the dressing rooms, "I want to see a guitar on that stage by the time I get back from Starbucks or else rehearsal today will run until midnight."

His announcement was met with an audibly periled groan, stemming from the depths of the mixed gendered changing rooms and stopping probably up in the tech's nest.

"Make that until two."

Ceremoniously and with a slightly over-dramatised squeal from his chair, Kurt shot to his feet, gathered up the script and various sheets of paper and slotted them into his bag. He gave a final contemptuous sneer in the general direction of the tech desk before setting off in a beeline for the stage doors. The last thing Kurt wanted to deal with was a dopey technician who forgets his messages and a costume department with no respect for the degree with which _Kurt needed a fucking guitar _and on top of that he was feeling far too sexually frustrated for his own good. He nearly tripped over a ladder in his efforts to get through the door a little too fast.

"Woah, there!"

A large hand was gripping Kurt's upper arm tight, steadying him and causing the alarmed director's own hand to snatch at the sudden presence on his bicep. When he was sure that both feet were securely placed on the ground, Kurt hazarded a glance up at his tall, broad-shouldered and unsettlingly blonde savior.

"You're sure in a rush, huh," the guy laughed lightly, smile broadening as his grasp on Kurt's arm loosened.

Kurt gently pulled away and flattened the shoulder strap of his satchel. He returned the grin, only no way was he capable of smiling with so many of his teeth on show. "Oh, you have no idea. It seems that the only person around here who wants to get this show on its feet is me."

Mr. Tall-And-Obscenely-Blonde laughed heartily once more. "Yeah, you sounded pretty pissed over the intercom. Can't be easy, directing this stuff. I know I could never do it unless I had like, a year or something"

"_This stuff"? Really? _"What did you say your name was again?" Kurt asked as sincerely as possible, smile never faltering. Really he should know pretty much everyone's name on set, but his mind and memory had been more than a little preoccupied.

"Oh, sorry," the guy started quickly, "My name's Sam Evans. I'm an extra." He thrust his hand out enthusiastically, eyes meeting Kurt with a sure message conveyance of _"Oh boy please shake my hand or I'll feel like an idiot". _Naturally, Kurt obliged.

"Kurt Hummel."

"I know. Heard you over the intercom, remember?"

Tight lipped and irritable, Kurt let out the tiniest chuckle imaginable and glanced down at his watch. He _needed _that coffee. And the great bleach blonde cinematic hottie in front of him was not contributory to that goal.

"So hey, um, I was gonna go get coffee seeing as everyone doesn't seem to be doing much," Sam said meekly, delving his hands into his baggy jeans pockets and looking like an oversized toddler who got caught sneaking an extra carton of juice at snack time. "You going my way?"

"Well, what do you know? I definitely am," Kurt replied, nodding once in affirmation as he strode on ahead and shoved the door open. He was certain that Sam was obediently bounding along behind, probably thanking his lucky blonde stars that Kurt hadn't given him a massive talking to about sneaking out during rehearsal.

And hey: having a swoopy-haired puppy of a guy traipsing after him might make Kurt a little less Blaine-centric after all.


	8. Chapter 8: Oh, Blaineeo

**A/N: **Okay, so I was a couple weeks late with this update, but it is twice as long as the previous chapter to make up for it! Again, thank you so much for your favourites. Any comments or criticism or whatever is greatly appreciated too, by the way... you know, if you wanted to... *ahem*. Anyway, just remember that I love you guys loads. Like, collossal loads.

_PS: My characterisation of Sam in this chapter is slightly off; I know the Sam we know on Glee is not canonically so cold, but for all intents and purposes of the story, he has to be. My apologies if there are any Sam stans following this!  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Finally.<em>

Blaine stepped out of the building and took a slow lungful of the blissfully humid air, rolling his shoulders as he turned his face to the soft sunshine. After a positively brutal morning of listening to the orchestra tune up and having to deal with ten disgruntled violinists' bitter complaints regarding the new bows Blaine had ordered ("This isn't horse hair, it's acrylic!"), it was like rebirth.

Not to mention he hadn't checked his phone for at least fifteen minutes: a personal record for the past three days.

Leaning against the wall of the tall, once majestic building, he let his bag drop from his shoulders, digging around in his back pocket until his fingers closed reassuringly around hard smooth plastic. After a short-lived battle to fish it from its denim-clad depths, Blaine held it out in front of like it was some sort of triumph. He very nearly dropped it when he saw a single message in a blue box flashing on the screen.

_One missed call._

If he actually was the teenage girl he felt he was deep, deep inside, Blaine would have probably started hyperventilating with excitement then and there. He'd been waiting for this forever. Well, not forever, but the past three days had felt like a damn long time. Luckily he managed to retain composure, hand shaking and face split by a 500 watt grin as he swiped his thumb across the bottom of the mobile screen and-

Oh.

Well, then.

_Missed calls: Finn Hudson._

Blaine felt his face drop like a stone would from the Empire State Building. Finn was probably the guy furthest from his mind at the given time. He squinted, tight-lipped and rueful at the small pixellated lettering until they lost their meaning, willing the words to rearrange themselves and form a certain blue-eyed boy's name instead of his lanky best friend's.

The phone started vibrating, the words _Finn__Hudson__is__calling_blinking at him, and Blaine did his best to sound as chipper as possible as he said, "What's up, man?"

"Dude!" Finn exclaimed, no doubt a tad _too_chipper. "Where are you? I told you to meet me at Gino's at 3pm and it's like-" there was a short pause, "-3:03pm."

Blaine cracked a smile to himself at Finn's insistent yet chirpy tone. "I'm on my way now. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"I don't wear panties," Finn mumbled indignantly.

Smirking, Blaine knew he didn't even need to reply to prompt a reaction.

"Hey, that was one time and you _swore_you'd never bring it up again, man. Not cool."

"Whatever," Blaine laughed. "I wasn't the one complaining about nasty chafing for a week."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't. And I guess the phrase "talcum powder hoarder" means nothing to you either?"

Finn's rush of blood to his cheeks was practically audible. "Look, are you coming to Gino's or not? Because I'm starving and I gotta be back at the store in twenty."

"On my way now. And Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"You want me to drop by Victoria's Secret on the way? They got these totally cute new pink la-"

"Okay, seriously, I will end you."

Blaine grabbed his backpack from the ground and swung it over his shoulder before blowing a raspberry down his phone, tapping the _end__ call_ button and idly checking his messages.

_New messages (0)_

He tried to ignore the tiny knot of disappointment wringing itself in the pit of his stomach, questioning its very existence and why it made his swimming thoughts focus solely on- _that__'__s __right,__ say__ his __name,__ it __won__'__t __singe__ your__ tongue_- Kurt.

Blaine almost walked headfirst into a grey steel lamppost as a pair of imaginary clear blue eyes invaded his vision.

He had to get some coffee in his system- and fast.

* * *

><p>"Did you have sex with Kurt?"<p>

Blaine blinked dumbly and looked up from his phone. "What?"

"You heard me." Finn was staring hard at him, hands clutching a cup of steaming coffee on the table and lips tightly pursed. To be honest, he looked more interested than he did mad, so that was one bonus.

"Yeah but I don't think I understand quite what you're getting a-"

"Did you or did you not have sex with that Kurt guy?" Finn repeated slowly, eyes trained on Blaine's.

Blaine let his tongue dart out of his mouth to lap up a droplet of foam sitting on his upper lip before sniffing, glancing warily at some nondescript item behind Finn's head, and ultimately shrugging his answer.

Finn's eyes practically bugged out of his skull. "Woah."

"Woah indeed," Blaine agreed in a mumble. He was now focused intently on the avid stirring of his coffee, watching the chocolate-flecked foam swimming round and round and refusing to look up at Finn's face until he received a more resounding response than "Woah."

Adjusting his seat, Blaine could tell Finn was still gawking at him, jaw lolling wide open and eyes the size of a shocked bush baby. "But that would mean you're like..._woah.__"_

"It's no big deal," Blaine retorted, "You said so yourself you were cool with the whole thing."

"Yeah, no, dude, I _am_cool with it. You're like, the gay version of that Gabe Saporta dude from that band about snakes and Star Trek or whatever. He's totally an awesome guy."

Blaine quirked an eyebrow as he finally met Finn's awestruck- and highly impressed- gaze. "I don't think Gabe Saporta is a stellar example of a hetero guy, Finn. And since when do you like Cobra Starship?"

Finn waved him off. "That isn't the point. The point is, woah. Look at you, all hung up over some guy you boned a couple days ago."

Trust Finn to be more interested in the principals of it rather than the mechanics. Blaine quickly thanked the sweet heavens for his best friend's naïvety before glancing down at his phone one more time.

_New messages (0)_

"Damn," Finn chuckled, shaking his head. "You have it pretty bad, don't you? You're checking your phone every chance you get and you talk about the guy like he invented TiVo or the Buckeyes or something. Talk about whipped."

Blaine scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Like I'm really pathetic enough for that crap. Kurt was...he was a bit of fun. Sure, I might still be a reeling a little from how awesome the sex was-"

"Which you never usually do," Finn noted with a leer. "Face facts, so want to hit that again."

"Fuck off and let me finish, would you? Look, Kurt and I had a thing. Once. One time. If it happens again, I'm down for it. If not, that's cool too."

Finn didn't look convinced. "Whatever you say, man."

"And as for my phone, I'm waiting for a call from the guy who runs inventory. He's been avoiding me for a while and I can't figure out why," Blaine mused. The latter part of the statement was, to Blaine's confusion, actually very, very true. Finn began making irritating clucking sounds with his tongue, arms crossed over his broad chest and eyebrows raised so high that Blaine swore they were trying to merge with his hairline. Finally, Blaine heaved a weighty sigh and dangled his phone in front of Finn's triumphant face. "I called him five times but he didn't call me back. He sent a text, though."

"A text? What did he say?"

Blaine resisted the urge to roll his eyes again, tapping the phone screen with an insistent nail. Gripping it with two hands, Finn went terrifyingly cross-eyed before leaning back on his chair to read. "Hi?"

"Yeah."

"He said "Hi"? That's it?"

"H, i. Hi."

Finn made a wincing sound, sucking air in sharply through his teeth. "I dunno, man. Doesn't sound good to me."

"Did I ask you for you opinion?" Blaine snapped, yanking his phone back and cradling it in his left palm. "Dudes are different from chicks. For all we know, this could be how it goes for gay guys."

"Well if it is, that's a lesson for you, not for me."

"Okay, do you want to shut up?"

Motioning zipping his lip, Finn clumsily got to his feet, nearly knocking his own chair over in the process, and patted Blaine's shoulder when he made a motion to get up too. "I got this one. You stay here and try not to like, pick up a guy or something.

Blaine sucked his teeth, staring at Finn with strained effort. "Excuse me?"

"Or like, go vegan."

"Again, _excuse __me?__"_

Finn's face crumpled. "My gay jokes aren't funny, are they."

"No," Blaine replied flatly. "They aren't."

With a final pat on Blaine's shoulder, Finn lumbered off into the small café to pay the bill.

"Yeah, right," Blaine muttered darkly to himself as his tapped repeatedly on his phone's screen, _"__Whipped.__"_

He paused.

Biting his lip, Blaine hazarded a look up at Gino's doorway. Then, he took a deep, steady breath, and scrolled to find Kurt Hummel's name on his contact list.

"Hey there, Kurt," Blaine began brightly. He was smiling, the image of two gentle blue eyes ghosting over his lids whenever he blinked, and despite it only being a voicemail message, Blaine didn't care to stop. "I'm just uh, having a coffee with that guy Finn you met at the boardwalk that day. You know, the one who looks like the awkward love-child of an orangutan and a giraffe. He mentioned that he likes your friend Rachel, by the way, which is also pretty cool. I just wanted to say that I had a really good time last weekend." _A__ really __damn __amazingly __good__ time._"And I was just wondering if maybe-"

Blaine cut himself off immediately, choosing instead to violently shake his head because he could not be seeing Kurt Hummel himself, striding down the sidewalk towards this very same café with what appeared to be a better looking, more blonde version of Finn bumbling along a few feet behind. He watched in stunned silence as Kurt appeared to be laughing to himself, his usually sharp and penetrating eyes softening as his head tilted back just so, showing the smooth curvature of his neck. The very same neck Blaine had only recently been sucking and licking at, kissing away the sweat and feeling Kurt's gasping moans vibrate against his lips and _okay,__ down __boy._

It was then that Blaine decided to glance down at his hands and realised with a pang that he was still on voicemail- to Kurt.

"Well speak of the Devil! Guess who's just walking right up to Gino's and also is in search of the best coffee in town?" Blaine paused, leaving ample room for a nonexistent reply. _You __dumbass._"Hah. Funny how things happen like that. Hey, okay, I'm going to go talk to you now so catch you later!"

Blaine stabbed the "end call" button and very nearly kicked himself for that less than verbose closing comment, already out of his chair and walking rather quickly towards Kurt before he'd even pocketed his phone.

"Hey!" Blaine said cheerily, thrusting his hands in his pockets and nodding at Kurt.

Kurt smiled warmly in reply. "Hey yourself. Uh, Blaine, this is Sam. He's in my production at the theatre," he added, gesturing with an impossibly regal, fluid movement to the blonde guy next to him. Sam extended a hand, which Blaine only momentarily inspected before clasping it tight within his own.

"Nice to meet you, Blaine," Sam grinned. Blaine returned with a thin smile of his own, noting Sam's giving him the once over and the muted chuckle he'd choked down.

Blaine didn't like this guy already.

"You too." Blaine dropped Sam's hand unceremoniously and turned to Kurt. "What brings you here today?"

"Well, it is a public café," Kurt replied with the same delicate smile, "We have literally about ten minutes to grab some coffee and go before all my cast decide they can just goof off at home anyway and abandon ship."

Blaine let out a hopefully genuine sounding peal of laughter. Sam merely began toeing a crack in the pavement, idly awaiting Kurt's beck and call.

_The tool._

"So Sam," Blaine began, casting a glance up and down his very dauntingly tall being, "You're helping Kurt out with his musical?"

"Acting in it, really," Sam corrected with a hint of defiance, his eyes still friendly albeit a glint of defensiveness. "I'm just an extra, so I'm sure Kurt could actually live without me."

Kurt laughed his sing-song laugh at Sam's totally unfunny jibe, and Blaine tittered his fair share of amusement.

_Amusement__ because __wow,__you __really __are__ such __a __tool.__ "_Awesome. That's...that's awesome."

_Not._

He was about to pick up conversation with Kurt again when, like badly timed clockwork, Blaine saw Finn in his peripheral vision starting towards the exit to the café and _sweet__ Jesus, __no._

"Hey, guys!"

_Too late._

"Hey, Finn," Kurt replied, cocking his head politely. He looked back at Blaine with some sort of apology in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, but we really are in a hurry. Listen, Blaine," Kurt spoke slightly quieter, reaching out to lay a hand on Blaine's arm and Blaine totally didn't have flashbacks of those same fingers digging into his shoulder blades, nails scraping the skin and leaving deliciously red-hot paths in their wake. His mind totally didn't go there. "Can I call you later?"

Blaine bobbed his head in a nod, returning Kurt's smirk. "Sure, definitely."

"Great." Kurt licked his lower lip, eyes darting to Blaine's briefly before he pulled away and waved a goodbye to both him and Finn. Blaine waggled his fingers in reply, feet seemingly rooted to the floor.

A pointy elbow was suddenly wedged between his ribs and Blaine's shoved Finn away, making the informed decision to ignore Finn's hiccoughing chuckles. They grabbed their bags off the table, Blaine checking his watch one final time before turning on his heel, and went their separate ways.

Finn whistled behind him. "Like I said, man: _whipped!__"_


	9. Chapter 9: Turn It Off

Chapter Nine

Kurt slid his lunch box onto the table and collapsed into his seat with a dramatic groan. Mercedes, knowing Kurt all too well, simply edged away a little and gave his grey blazer clad shoulder a small, comforting squeeze before watching as her best friend cracked his tired eyes open, focused his pupils warily on her own, and promptly threw back his head in defeat. The motion was of course accentuated with another hearty groan, and Mercedes cleared her throat and waited, clucking her tongue. Kurt would come around.

"I hate boys." He said finally after a long, long pause. "Boys are stupid."

She nodded in agreement. "I hear ya. I just cannot be bothered anymore with the constant neediness and loneliness and have I ever told you about this one guy I dated who-"

"No, it isn't that." Kurt replied with a grunt as he sat up, crossing his arms over his chest and blinking into the harsh house lights of the theatre. He'd sent the cast out on a break so that he and Mercedes could have a nice, quiet chat in a nice, quiet space, and suddenly Kurt had never felt more like just sitting alone in his room and drowning in his thoughts.

Because how was he meant to make Mercedes understand his problem, his problem which most people would know the answer to so very easily without more than a second's consideration?

Mercedes hummed inquisitively, looking at Kurt sidelong and delivering a weak punch to his elbow. "C'mon, sweetie. What's eating you about guys this time?"

Kurt hesitated a moment, scanning Mercedes' face carefully before relenting, swiveling around on his chair and nervously playing with his own hands. They were sweating already, and Kurt found that kind of disgusting. "You remember that guy? Blaine?"

She gave an appreciative purr. "Hell yeah I remember him. It'll take much longer than three days for me to forget an ass like that, Hummel."

"Yeah well I saw him again today," Kurt continued slowly, "When I was out getting lunch with Sam, and-"

"Wait, Sam?" Mercedes pouted her full lips and flipped her hair wildly. _"__Bieber_hair Sam?"

"His name is Sam Evans, and he does _not_look like Justin Bieber," Kurt said indignantly.

"He's cute. Sam, I mean."

"I know he is, bu-"

"If you don't want that, please pass him over here."

"Stop interrupting me."

"Okay, sorry."

Kurt gave a tight smile before rolling his eyes and clearing his throat. "So Sam and I were getting lunch together earlier and he was being all sweet and kind and flirty and offering to buy me lunch in this totally sweet and kind and flirty way and then I saw Blaine with that tall friend of his and it is so unfair, Mercedes."

She gawked at Kurt dumbly, eyes wide. Kurt's voice had unintentionally wavered at the mention of Blaine's name. Oops. "Are you- wait, are you complaining about having multiple guys fawning over you?"

"I know it sounds stupid but it's," Kurt's tongue went limp, failing to string together a sentence and so settled with a weak utterance of, "Yeah, basically."

Mercedes gave an awe-inspiringly loud hoot of excitement and she scooted her chair closer. At this distance, Kurt could see her eyes seething with equal parts joy and a glimmer of jealousy. "Do you understand how many people would kill to be in that position? _Damn.__"_

Kurt sighed and gave a non-committal shrug. It was stupid, really, trying to tangle his best friend into the pathetic, complicated, sticky web that was his love life. Totally unfair to both Mercedes and Blaine and Sam respectively. Did he feel bad about leading both guys on? Sure. Did he regret it, though? Not a bit. Kurt wasn't one for relationships. Too much mess, too many feelings, and in the end he'd always be the one kicked to the cold hard curb of the sidewalk, heart bruised and begotten. Kurt would swear off any non-platonic relations with guys if he could, even if only to protect himself, but here's the deal: Kurt Hummel loved sex. He loved it so much that he'd maybe risk getting trampled on by the guy after he'd gotten sick of Kurt's ever-present nagging and condescension. That was, until, Kurt finally found a way of simply switching his emotions off, found a way to act like other guys and use people purely for the primal, filthy needs of his libido. And both Sam and Blaine seemed worthy contenders for said needs.

The silence had dragged on long enough, and Mercedes intent gaze was turning slightly demented. Kurt opened his mouth to offer some sort of snappy retort, hopefully which would segue gracefully into another topic of conversation entirely, when the tell-tale laboured heave of the audience-level doors being pushed open caused his and Mercedes's heads to snap to the left, seeking out the intruder.

Kurt heard him before he saw him.

As the doors swung shut with a resounding slam, a polite voice bode nothing in particular a quick work of apology, almost as if he was worried the door had hit someone in the face, and Kurt was already imagining Blaine's curly, lightly gelled head of hair and casual saunter as he came shuffling down one of the aisles. Kurt felt a knot clench his stomach when Blaine's eyes, initially wide and searching, turned dazedly happy when he caught Kurt's gaze.

_Turn__it__off_.

It was now that Kurt noticed Blaine was holding a bright purple ribbon tied to an even brighter purple balloon which bobbed just above his head as he made his way slowly towards the two stunned directors.

"Hey, Kurt!"

Kurt let out a small sound of surprise (dammit, what was _wrong_with his tongue today) before he promptly laid a hand on Mercedes' shoulder, pushed himself out from behind the desk, and calmly led Blaine away. Blaine shot Kurt a few sideways smiles as Kurt shuffled them both to a securely secluded little booth on the other end of the seating block. Kurt was still trying not to blush too hard.

"Okay," he began, taking Blaine by both elbows and effectively swiveling his curly-headed body around so they could face one another, "Why're you here?"

Kurt had been trying to sound as gentle as possibly, voice not overly clipped and being sure to speak with a slight upward twitch in the corners of his lips, but clearly his efforts were unsuccessful; judging from Blaine's raised brows and the glint of hurt in his dewy eyes, Kurt had come across as exactly the opposite.

"Well you didn't call me back, so I figured I'd come here," Blaine said indignantly. His eyes flickered between Kurt's eyes and lips, still wet from being constantly lapped at by his persistent tongue, but Blaine forced himself to remain on track. With great flourish, Blaine held the balloon ribbon out to Kurt. "This is for you."

Kurt eyed the floating circlet of purple speculatively as if it was something foreign, the shiny surfaces throwing dazzling white light every which way and large goofy lettering spelling out-

"Congratulations," Kurt recited. "You're _congratulating_me on having sex with you?"

Blaine shrugged somewhat defensively. "It was either a congratulations balloon or a happy birthday one, and I didn't think it was your birthday any time soon so...I don't know."

Kurt set his mouth in a straight line. "It isn't."

"What?" Blaine asked, mystified, as if he was expecting Kurt to suddenly reveal that today was indeed his birthday and Blaine had once again made an ass of himself.

"My birthday. It isn't anytime soon."

"Really? Good."

"Yeah," Kurt confirmed with a shaky nod of his head. He willed himself not to grin at Blaine's look of achievement. It was only there for a moment, a flash of pride washing over his features quicker than the thrum of a mockingbird's heartbeat, and Kurt wanted to slap him or kiss him or something equally destructive. "Look, Blaine, it's a very sweet gesture _(albeit__stupid__and__thusly__somehow__endearing)_but I'm working right now and-"

"Yeah, no no, it's fine," Blaine gabbled, pushing the balloon into Kurt's grasp and taking a step towards the exit. He turned back to Kurt before he'd properly made to leave, of course. No one goes to all the trouble of buying you a balloon _and_seeking out your workplace _and_barging into it uninvited without having a token of something valuable to share, surely. "So, what was with you not calling me back?"

Sultry Blaine was back in business. His eyes had glazed over, boring into Kurt's intently, the area where he was now touching Kurt's arm almost sizzling beneath his grip. This irritated Kurt- Blaine should really pick one demeanor: the sunny and upbeat guy or the suave I'll Sex You Up In A Toweling Robe guy. It was all Kurt could do to lean back on his heels and clear his throat. The fact that he was painfully aware of Mercedes' eyes glued to the pair of them made things even more disconcerting

"I'm not good at this."

Blaine cocked his head. "Good at what?"

"This," Kurt exclaimed with wild gesticulation. "Romance. Talking. Being in a relationship. I just- I become this weird, scary version of myself when I get involved with a guy like that I don't want it to happen to me again. Because I don't like the guy I become when I try and be the guy that most guys want me to be." Kurt frowned at Blaine's puzzled, amused expression. "Did any of that even make sense?"

Blaine's lips curled into a smirk. "Kind of."

"Okay. Good."

"Good."

Silence. Sucking his teeth, Kurt became more aware of Blaine's hand on his arm, unable to stop himself from pulling away when the air became so still he could hear blood zooming through his eardrums. He fiddled with the balloon string uncomfortably until Blaine cleared his throat, catching Kurt's eye which had somehow trailed away to focus somewhere to the left of Blaine's head.

"You know, I couldn't date you either," Blaine stated, lips pouting slightly as if in an apology.

Kurt felt a pang of some unknown feeling in his gut. "Oh really? And why is that?"

"Well for one thing, my dad doesn't know I'm gay so..."

"Oh." _That__I__can__work__with._

"Kurt!" Mercedes called from behind, causing Kurt to spin around to face the voice at its source. He hoped the pink in his cheeks wasn't visible from her distance. "We're starting again in five."

Kurt gave a small nod, accompanied by a confirming wave of his hand before turning back to Blaine.

"Looks like this is my _cue_ to leave," Blaine said, laughing at his own dry pun.

_Theatres.__Cues.__Ha,__ha,__ha._

Kurt simply rolled his eyes.

"Bye, then."

"Bye, Kurt."

"Bye, Blaine!"

"Oh, uh, bye, Mercedes!"

Kurt bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth and smoothing his thumb over the slippery surface of the balloon ribbon where it rested on his knuckle. As he sat down again next to Mercedes, he had to resist the urge to dig her most painfully in the ribs.

"We can be friends, okay," Kurt mused aloud, _"__Friends.__"_

Laughing, Mercedes wiped at her eye and picked up the stack on papers on the desk, tapping them all in place. "Whatever you say, boss. I'll remind you of this day on your honeymoon."

Kurt sighed, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen with blurred fingers. "Said it once and I'll say it again: I hate boys and boys are stupid."

"Sure. Hey, what're you doing?"

"I'm texting Blaine."


End file.
